I often wonder if the word obsess were not in the dictionary would my life have any meaning? For as long as I can remember obsessing has been the nature of my existence. My obsessions have literally spanned the globe encompassing penises, parties, flying, and even dressing in drag. There have been sleepless nights spent over a conversation gone wrong. "Did I say something to offend him?" Or worse, a conversation that hadn’t even occurred yet. "What will I say that might offend her?" Pant colors, shirt sizes, too many plantings in the garden, too few plantings in the garden, going to the gym, even underwear, boxer versus brief. The list is endless.
When a hurricane is in the Atlantic moving slowly toward land, the Weather Channel carefully tracks its path as it builds momentum, rises in category, and ultimately makes landfall. Approaching an intersection we spot the traffic light ahead. Green changes to yellow, then in the blink of an eye makes its final turn to red-- Stop. My obsessive behavior follows a similar warning sysytem.
When I turned twenty my mother, in her infinite wisdom, gave me a gift. It was a small hardcovered book, a children’s story, called “Mr. Worry”. Apparently she thought it was a cute summation of my soul. It was indeed cute and we laughed as I opened the package revealing the illustration of the little abstract character who worried about all that life had to offer. I couldn't help but wonder if my mentor knew she was in fact “Mrs. Worry”.
In the dawn of my teen years I had my first encounter with a penis other than my own or my brother's, which I had regularly seen in the bathtub as children. While scrubbing off the usual "kid dirt" we would get erections and pretend they were the masts of our ships sailing along the wide open sea. Anyway, this new penis wasn't a big deal but I couldn’t help noticing the way it curved downward even when erect. Mine, on the other hand, was shaped much differently with a distinct elevation away from the gravitational pull. With little exposure to the male body at this point I began to convince myself that mine was probably misshapen. Truthfully at the time I felt God had somehow created my penis from the “seconds” group. Turmoil was erupting within. I began to obsess over the fact that mine was different. “Green light”
Everyday I would put my penis to the test. We would do exercises together in an attempt to curve it downward; a very painful experience. Pointing it toward the floor, away from the sky, I would force it into an unnatural position but the damn thing always rebelled. My penis had become a rebel with a cause. When packed away in my briefs I would be certain to “tuck it down” so if it decided to grow during the day it would follow the “right” path and head south. One day it did. Unless you are man there is no imagining how uncomfortable this situation can be.
In the middle of a U.S. History class, for no apparent reason, my penis decided to rise up in revolution. Unfortunately it was misaligned and the sensation was more than uncomfortable. There was no apparent stimulation that I could decipher but it was determined to rebel. As it pushed against my pants, downward, in a straight path, apparently it became confused. Like a convict in a prison it managed to tunnel it's way out through the side leg opening of my underwear. It had become unleashed and was reveling in its new found freedom. I couldn't stand up for there was a distinctly visible problem, a thick line heading southwest. There was no escape. “Yellow light”
The loud tone of the bell, signaling the end of class, was going off and my fellow classmates rose to exit except one, me, two if you count my penis. I shifted and squirmed as I lingered behind attempting to get the wild beast to subside. It was to no avail. The sensation of my brushed corduroy pants was like a hand stroking a puppy's fur. My "puppy" was loving it. Gazing at the front of the room I noticed the look of bewilderment on my teacher, Mrs. Bixby's face. “Keith, is there a problem? Do you need a hand?” As she rose from her chair my mind convulsed. God no, I thought-- maybe our handsome and impeccably well dressed guidance counselor, Mr. Jennson, but not you. I simply shook my head back and forth fiercely. “No. No thank you.”
Miraculously, like a turtle, my penis began to retreat with the thought of the teacher lending a helping hand. I rose slowly and positioning my books in front of my crotch in case of another revolution left the classroom. “This is bullshit.” In the boy's lavatory I reached deep within my pants and with a firm grasp adjusted my penis and my thinking. I have learned every penis is its own man. “Red light”
My obsessions have little choice but to follow me for the remainder of my life. They are who I am. Luckily I have developed an astute sense for seeing the yellow light and slowing down.
When I had to dress in drag for a fundraiser and turn myself into Diana Ross the obsession chronometer in my head was off the charts. Every day I would listen to her sing, pretend to be on stage and spin like a Supreme while wearing 4 inch crystal heels. "Green light." The woman behind the M*A*C cosmetics counter at Macy's and I were on a first name basis. She understood the coloration of my skin and was invaluable in aiding me so I could create a lovely, rich mocha skin tone. "Yellow light."
The final straw came when I hunted down a saleswoman to ask her if she thought a crystal belt worn over my red shimmering dress would be too much. She simply stared at me, perhaps contemplated calling security and said, "Yes." Realizing the degree of my lunacy I placed the beaded belt down, thanked her for listening and walked away with my head between my legs. What had become of me? "Red light." My familiar behavior had taken over. As I left the store I wondered, "Could it be time to re-examine the law of my obsession?" Thankfully I am, with the help of my therapist and 10 milligrams of Paxil daily, learning to manage and detour my counterpart. Obsession had apparently become nine-tenths of me.
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